


A Gift Of Something Soft

by helens78



Series: Not So Platonic [1]
Category: Establishment RPF
Genre: F/M, Knitting, Platonic Relationship, Pre-Het, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-11
Updated: 2007-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Lin didn't know better, she'd be wondering if she and Pierce were turning into a "thing".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift Of Something Soft

After six Thursday nights in a row spent dancing with Pierce until the wee hours of the morning, it occurs to Lin that this is the point she'd be asking any other male friend if they're turning into a _thing_.

It's Pierce, so the point is moot, but still. Six weeks, and it's become such a regular thing that they've built their schedules around it, change plans to ensure they can still make it out to the Terrace no matter what else is going on, and when she goes shopping she looks at herself in dresses and heels and thinks _would Pierce like this?_

He's charming and sensitive and _pays attention_ , never talks over her, and if he weren't gayer than pink suede he'd be the best date she's had in years. The lack of a kiss goodnight -- or, more accurately, the fact that the kisses goodnight are always on the cheek and brotherly -- shouldn't make her crazy, because he's _never_ promised her more than he could give, and she knows he never would.

She's nearly ready when he knocks at her door. "C'mon in," she calls, just finishing up with her eyeliner.

He opens the door -- and it's sweet, how he always knocks, even if her door's half open, even if it's his second bedroom, his guest room, still in _his_ house because it's just never occurred to her to move out. His collar's undone and his cuffs still waiting for the cufflinks, and she shuts down the part of herself that wants to eat him up, because _no_. _You're not wrecking this friendship like that. Uh-uh. No, ma'am._

"What's up?" she asks.

"Trying to decide on cufflinks," he tells her. "I thought I'd see what you were wearing tonight."

She turns to face him and smiles. It's been warm this week, so she's in a short violet dress, spaghetti straps, with a flare to the hem, a wisp of sheer black underskirt showing for contrast. She's got kickass violet heels to go with it, and she'll be sore afterwards, but man, she looks _fantastic_ , and she knows it, too.

"Wait right here," he says, and he gets that grin on his face, the one that speaks to some nefarious plan.

He comes back with a cloudy handful of -- something, she doesn't know what, until he flicks both wrists and suddenly it's _lace_ , some kind of gauzy lace shawl that feels like softness incarnate draped over her shoulders. It's _gorgeous_ , and she always forgets he can _do_ things like this until she's staring at knitting needles or yarn or something he's made.

Handmade. It's a handmade lace shawl, and he's put it on her. She has _got_ to stop grinning like this.

"It's gorgeous," she says, though his smile tells her he knows that perfectly well. "Um. What's it made out of?"

"Alpaca," he says, "but I'll spare you the rest of the fiber history. It _almost_ does you justice. I think I've got a pair of cufflinks and a tie that'll match; I'll be back."

He doesn't get a chance, though, because she finishes up with her makeup and meets him instead. She has a habit of knocking and entering all in one motion, and she knows she really shouldn't do that sort of thing, but it's one of the ways she's made his house feel like _her_ place, too, like she isn't just a visitor who doesn't know when to leave. He's never seemed to mind.

She catches him slipping cufflinks into place, necktie draped over his shoulders. It won't last out the night, never does, but it _does_ match her dress -- black and a deep, dark purple in artistic swirls. The kind of thing she'd think he hand-painted, if he were into painting fabric. She's never seen it before, but he's more of a clotheshorse than she is, so that's no surprise.

"Need some help with your tie?" she asks.

Of course he doesn't, but he lets her help him anyway, watching as she loops the fabric into a Windsor knot that isn't half as neat as the ones he can manage. She tightens it just enough to look pretty, not enough to choke him, and something makes her stop before letting go, both hands on the silk tie, close enough to feel him breathing.

She looks up, and she almost _stops_ breathing herself, because he looks like he wants to kiss her. She's seen that look enough times to know. If he were anyone else -- if he were _straight_ , he'd just bend his head down and kiss her, and she'd kiss back, and his bed's not that far away, they'd never make it to the Terrace --

The moment slips out of her hands as she lets the tie go, and she thinks she might be going crazy. That didn't -- _couldn't_ \-- that sort of thing can't happen between them, isn't going to happen. It's all imagination and want, and she's not disappointed because she's never actually held out any hope for it.

She lets the shawl slide into the crooks of her elbows and smiles up at him. "Your car or mine? Or one of yours with me driving?"

"Tonight? Anything you want."

 _Yeah, if only_ , she thinks, before she can stop herself, but she just grins and says, "Then I'm driving the Beemer," and he laughs and follows her out.


End file.
